


until you die for me, as long as there is a light

by egelantier



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet Ending, Burns, Crucifixion, Disabled Character, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, desecration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:00:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21545680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egelantier/pseuds/egelantier
Summary: When Ignis chooses to go to Zegnatus Keep without taking the Ring with him, Ardyn devises for him a fate worse than death. But Ignis, being Ignis, finds a way to use his torture to turn the tide of Noct's destiny.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia & Prompto Argentum & Noctis Lucis Caelum & Ignis Scientia, Noctis Lucis Caelum & Ignis Scientia
Comments: 43
Kudos: 92
Collections: Fics from the Basement, Ignis whump October bingo 19





	1. ignition

“Rather than follow this flotsam and float away to a watery grave, why not come with me?”

The man they thought of as Chancellor Izunia leans to Ignis and offers his hand with courtly grace. Ignis stares up at him, blinks the rainwater out of his eyes, can't believe they've ever thought him anything as simple as human. The lips are smiling and the face is almost gentle, but now, now that Ignis can _see_ \- see how Ardyn is wearing his body like ill-suited clothes. There's ancient, enraged malice barely hiding under the mockery, imperfectly leashed, seething and hungry. Perhaps there were other plans in motion, bigger plans, but right now, looking into Ardyn’s eyes, Ignis knows that if he doesn't do _something_ , Ardyn won't be able to help himself - and Noct will die. 

_(Noct will die, Noct will die on the throne, Noct will die with his father's sword in his chest, Noct will...)_

This is untenable. The Ring is hidden in Ignis' palm, calling to him, but there's no guarantee it wouldn't devour him in place as it did with Ulric, that Ignis will make a better bargain with the Kings of Yore, one good enough to save Noct's life. A wasted sacrifice is worse than nothing. He needs to think of a better way, no matter the agony of his battered body, no matter the merciless metal digging into his back, twisting his arm up to the point of breaking. 

Ardyn stares at him, patient, cruelly curious, smiling, a cat over an exhausted mouse. Ignis' ribs still ache from the imprint of his heavy boot. It's like he can't himself, Ignis thinks, can't stop himself from being distracted by smaller cruelty, smaller victory. As if he wants - 

Ignis licks his lips, makes genuine fear and defiance mix within his voice in just the right amount, looks up at Ardyn through his eyelashes. Uncurls the fingers of his free hand, and lets go of the Ring. 

"I agree," he says, and doesn't flinch when the expected blow comes down and carries him under.

* * *

Ignis wakes. He fully expects to find himself restrained - chained up, stretched out on a torture rack, held by the same merciless metal whose imprint he can still feel on his abused flesh - but he's alone, and his hands are free. The Armiger refuses to open to him, the space where it should be filled with a dull, hopeless ache that makes him miss Noct and Gladio and Prompto so badly his eyes sting. The bare steel walls around him likely mean Gralea. Ardyn is not around. He reaches out for his daggers, and grasps at emptiness.

The mouse, it seems, needs to find the cat. So be it, Ignis decides, and sets out to find his enemy. 

The corridors are ominously empty. He tries to match the layout with what he remembers from Cor's briefings on the Empire, and comes to the conclusion that this must be Zegnatus Keep, a stronghold in the heart of Gralea, and grows steadily more confused. It's a military base, one of the key ones; even assuming Ardyn gave orders not to interfere with him, there should be soldiers and MTs rushing back and forth, guards stationed in the key intersections. But there's only silence, broken up by his own uneven, exhausted gait, ringing with echoes. Silence and a quiet, creeping smell of mold and rot and copper, a smell familiar from hundreds of daemon-infested dungeons. 

The puzzle nags at him, but he sweeps it away. Without the Ring, without his weapons, it's unlikely he's going to leave the Keep alive. But he can occupy Ardyn for that much longer, with his demise if with nothing else. Long enough, Ignis hopes, for Noct to be found, to recover, to plan his next steps. Enough to come and meet Ardyn with the full power of the Gods behind him - and then. And then? 

His nerves shriek at him, pulled tighter and tighter by the bland safety of his surroundings. Some doors slide open at his approach and some stay stubbornly closed; he's being herded, Ignis thinks, and allows himself to be led. The vision he saw rings inside his head, and he grits his teeth, presses his nails into the flesh of his palms. All of their travels, to come to this? The fate of the world, to come to this, to Noct slaughtered by his own ancestors, offered to the darkness like a sacrificial lamb?  
It's out of his hands. It's out of his hands. It's out of his...

The corridor spills him into a vast, cavernous emptiness crossed with walkways. and at the heart - Ignis stares. He's seen the Crystal only once before, when he was sixteen, in the ceremony that tied him to Noct's magic. A lifetime ago, and he stares at it, remembering the searing pain and unbearable elation of that day, the burning awe and joy of it - the moment he took Noct's hand and the light of gods swept over them, pulling him into what he already knew his destiny to be, the moment he felt the echoing, immense weight of Noct's power and duty, and was allowed to share in it. The confirmation, the culmination. 

He takes a step towards the Crystal, and then another, pulled forward, torn between the confused desires to kneel in submission and to rail in fury - at the Gods who required a sacrifice so much more merciless, so much more finite than he imagined, back on that summer day. His blood sings; the Crystal pulses with light. 

Something grand and horrendous swells behind him, a miasma of rage and darkness. He swirls around to see Ardyn walk into the hall, sees the Councillor's sneering face run with black ichor, melt like a wax candle, and his breath catches in horror. 

"Ardyn Izunia," the thing that he had thought to be human says, and tips his hat at him. "Enjoying the view, Ignis?"

He takes a step back, then another; the air itself seems slow, charged with the clashing powers that hum behind and in front of him. Ardyn - _Izunia_ , the boogieman from the oldest, carefully forgotten texts, impossibly alive - raves and rants, decrying the Gods, lamenting his brother's grand betrayal, and all Ignis thinks is _Noct_ and _Noct_ and _Noct_ , helplessly, a stuck record. His prince, caught in a war millennia too old, not of his making. His Noct, a last stake tossed on the table. A cruel joke. 

"I've never been called 'Your Majesty' before. Will you do me the honor?"

It's a relief, in a way, to know his answer so clearly. 

Ardyn's weapons slam into him, leaving his body intact and yet tearing him apart; something inside of him shatters, splinters, irreparably damaged. The Crystal sings. This is the end, and he puts all his power into not going down on his knees. To deny his enemy the smallest possible bit of victory; how small his contribution ended up being, in the grand scheme of things. 

He ends up on his back, staring at the gray steel of Gralea, steps away from the fractured purple light, unable to catch his breath. His vision is pulsing in and out. He hears Ardyn's leisurely, heavy steps, and tries to goad his body into enough coordination to at least spit in the face of his enemy. 

Ardyn leans down to him, the face almost human again - smiling - almost kind. His hand, so cold Ignis feels it even through the mortal frost stealing his body, closes on Ignis' throat gently like a caress. 

"So loyal," Ardyn murmurs. "So useless."

His fingers clench; he hoists Ignis up in the air with no visible effort, and Ignis' scrabbling hands slide uselessly off his ornate sleeves. 

"I wanted to leave you as a little gift to dear Noctis," Ardyn says, thoughtfully. "You know, just to welcome him here - but perhaps there's a more aesthetically pleasing option?"

There's no time - and no air, and no breath - for Ignis to understand what he means, before Ardyn, whip-quick, slams him, back first, into the forbidden jagged heart of the Crystal.

It's shockingly mundane for a moment, when Ardyn takes his crushing hand from Ignis' throat - just the jarring pain of the impact, and Ignis' desperate attempts to heave air in. And then the Crystal roars to life - _sacrilege_ , Ignis' mind chants, unmoored, _sacrilege_ , _sacrilege_ , _sacrilege_ \- and Ignis burns.


	2. come on, come on and let me in

Noct hates math, and always did. Math offers too little give: chart the equations, and they will never allow relief or mercy. There are only so many hours in the day, there are only so many pints of blood in the human body, there are only so many opportunities. 

Math tells him that he spent three priceless days uselessly recovering in Altissia - that Ignis was with Ardyn Izunia for every minute of those three days - seventy-two hours, four thousand three hundred twenty minutes. For all Noct knows he’s bored out of his wits in some cell somewhere, or maybe Ardyn’s playing his dementedly good persona again and regaling Ignis with tea and tall tales - but in his heart of hearts Noct knows they're late. Math never lies, and math tells him that they are racing to find a corpse. 

They run through the echoing metal halls, Gladio and Prompto at his back, and Noct sweeps the attacking daemons away with rage as well as skill. In his head he tries to bargain with the math - maybe if they win just a moment sooner? Maybe they will arrive just in time? Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

Ardyn's voices come over the comms, silken and mocking, and Noct makes himself listen through the roar of blood in his ears, waiting for him to mention Ignis, waiting for the recorded screams to tear through him. But it's just mockery and faux-concern, and invitation - some doors stay closed and some open, and the daemons make way for them. Before Noct's ready (he'll never be ready), they're in the heart of Zegnautus Keep, in a cavernous cathedral of steel and chains, where the Crystal suspended in the middle of it beckons Noct forward like an always-remembered dream. 

In the heart of the Crystal, outlined carelessly in its jagged shine, there's a body. 

The sight of it hits Noct like a blow; he stumbles, and would have gone over the edge of the walkway if not for Gladio's fast reflexes. A fitting end for the King of the Light, splattering against the far-below floor of an enemy's fortress; it would be fun to explain to Dad in the afterlife. It's... 

He can recognize his own brain stalling, spinning its wheels while reality fights to reassert itself. Prompto moans behind him, high and reedy, and Gladio is swearing without inflection, each word leaden and dead, and Noct - and Noct - 

And Noct steps forward. He can't tear his eyes away from the body - arms stretched wide, a parody of a greeting, ash gathered in soft piles underneath, skin charred. The Crystal shines against the body's contours, jagged and sickly bright, horrendously alive, and Noct warps before he knows it, a throw and only then a thought, the stench in his nostrils, the endless stretching desert of his thoughts. 

He reaches out, and the body opens its eyes and its mouth, their jagged holes filled with the holy purple. 

"Noct," Ignis whispers. with a voice not his own. "No." 

Gladio's hands are on his shoulders, trying to drag him back, and Noct shakes him off, snaps at Prompto to start getting the Phoenix Downs and elixirs out. He doesn't care if it's a miracle or some of Adryn's tricks, if Ignis is alive, he will _keep_ him alive, and if he's never going to get another night of sleep unspoiled by this sickly purple light, so be it. 

"It's okay, Specs," he babbles, almost meaningless. "It's fine, it's okay, we'll get you out, it's fine..." 

Ignis moans, a splintered sound like a grinding of rocks, like nothing that should come out of a human throat. "The gods... don't... don't touch..." 

Gladio grabs for his shoulders again, this time more firmly. "Listen to him." 

Noct whirls and rounds on him. "We need to get him out, now." 

"No," Ignis says again. 

"Look at him," Gladio hisses. "How can he be alive? It's a trap, Ardyn - " 

"Indeed," a honeyed voice says. "What would you do now, dear Noctis?" 

Prompto's gun barks before Noct has time to register Ardyn's presence or understand how he managed to appear behind them, the walkway empty one moment and then not. The bullet drills a hole in the dead center of Ardyn's forehead. oct's torn between satisfaction and dismay - 

\- and Ardyn begins to laugh. The wound on his face oozes black, and Ardyn's eyes flash yellow, and he laughs like Prompto's made the perfect joke and he's inviting them to join in his mirth. 

"Tsk," he says. "Tsk, how rude are you to your host. And here I am with a perfect gift to welcome you!" 

Gladio roars and swings his greatsword, but it passes through the space Ardyn occupies harmlessly, Ardyn blinking in and out of existence. 

"How tiring," he says, and clicks his fingers. Noct feels a wave of magic sweep through space, and Gladio and Prompto freeze, caught mid-motion, their faces identical masks of enraged horror. 

"Ardyn," Noct says. "What do you want?" 

He's unaffected by whatever foul magic Ardyn uses, but terror roots him solidly in place. He's painfully aware of the fragility of his friends, of their helplessness. Rage rises in him, choking him, but he can't afford to give it space, not when so much is hanging in the balance. 

"Oh," Ardyn smirks, "no. What do _you_ want, little kinglet? Here it is, your inheritance." 

"What," Noct says through his teeth, "did you do to Ignis?" 

"I weep for your observational skills," Ardyn says. "You'd think it would be obvious at a glance." 

The Crystal paints the hollows of his face purple, throws his shadow at the opposite wall, twisted and menacing. Noct grits his teeth; his palm itches for the hilt of his sword. 

"Anybody who touches him," Ardyn continues conversationally, "will share his fate. Profaning the sacred light, and so on. But you, of course, hold a key to this little piece of destiny, don't you?" 

He tips his hat at Noct. "I will leave you to puzzle this little conundrum out, little king. Let us meet on the other side." 

A blink, and he's gone; Promtpo and Gladio jolt back into life, Gladio curses ringing loud and inventive through the echoing place. 

"Gah," Prompto says with feeling. "Did he just?.." 

"Noct," Gladio says over him. "You know what he meant, don't you?" 

"Yes," Noct says. He pulls the Ring from the Armiger without looking, his eyes riveted to Ignis again, and the familiar loathsome weight burns his palms. "The Ring permits the king to touch the Crystal and to harness its power. Wasn't that what you wanted?" 

"I'm not happy about wanting the same thing Ardyn does," Gladio says. "Maybe we should regroup and think it through." 

Prompto sucks air in. "But Ignis..." 

Gladio brings his palm down on the metal railing, hard, and Prompto jumps. Noct thinks, suddenly and irrelevantly, that he's never seen Gladio look so much like Clarus. "Ignis knows his duty. He wouldn't want - he _doesn't_ want to be worth Noct's life." 

Ignis' harsh breathing, less a sound produced by human lungs and more fire cracking, echoes between them, fills the resulting silence. 

And Noct, unable to bear it, slides the Ring on his finger. 

This close to the Crystal, the power of it comes over him like a wave - sacred light, holy agony, the heavy might of a star concentrated in his palm. He feels like he can tear Eos apart with a flick of his finger, and like a flick of a finger can bring him down. He thinks he can hear his father's voice - his ancestor's voices, all at once, clamoring for his attention, blurred together into one indistinct voice of anger. 

And Ignis; agony overlaid over the Crystal's light, threaded and melted into it. The Crystal is killing him and keeping him alive, burning him and resurrecting him in one endless stuttering cycle, and Noct can barely trace what's left of his mind, of the scattered particles of Ignis' soul. And yet there's a ferocious refusal to surrender. There's Ignis' keeping himself awake, just for the sake of this desperate _no_. 

"No," Noct says, echoing him. "I will not allow this to stand." 

He turns to Prompto and Gladio, reaches out for them - the light is enveloping him, surging within and without him, and he can feel its impatience, its hunger, but this is _important_ \- and he's grateful beyond belief when they clasp his burning hands without hesitation. 

"Wait for me," he asks them. "I promise I will come back." 

And finally he reaches for Ignis, lays a gentle palm across Ignis' blackened lips, silencing him. Leans his forehead against Ignis', and when the light of the star calls him, he wraps his hands against Ignis, tight, tighter, and takes them both to the Beyond.


	3. my shadow's over you

It's by pure coincidence that Gladio and Prompto are both passing through Hammerhead when Talcott contacts them. Gladio takes the call, and Prompto can't distinguish the words, but he hears the deliriously high pitch of Talcott's voice. The years had mostly weaned the kid off childish excitement, so it can only mean - Prompto stares at Gladio in mute appeal, barely restraining the urge to tug on his jacket sleeve, and Gladio doesn't leave him hanging.

He disconnects and says, "Noct appeared in the Galdin Quay, kid's bringing him here."

"Shiva's mercy," Prompto breathes out. And then, because his hope was always hard to kill, adds, "and?"

"Him and Iggy," Gladio clarifies, and Prompto pumps his fist and tactfully pretends not to see Gladio swallow and dash his hand across his eyes.

The truck pulls up and Noct steps out; seeing him is a shock. It's been ten years; on some level Prompto expects him to have come out of the Crystal unchanged, as if the entire world was put on pause, waiting for him to return. Seeing this new, unfamiliar, grown-up Noct - with a beard, of all things! - makes Prompto feel the weight of the years that went by, track the change in his and Gladio's bodies.

Gladio's leaner, tougher, older; a father now, and a husband. Prompto's… well, still Prompto, he thinks, but now that he sees Noct, he can't quite reconnect to who he was ten years ago; can't reconcile himself with that younger, bouncier version.

All of this flashes through his head while Noct is unfolding from the truck cabin; bouncy or not, Prompto rushes in nevertheless, and gets his hug in before Gladio catches up - ha! Noct stiffens for a moment, a little startled oof of sound, - Gods, ten years in that place, ten years that had actually passed for him, and does he even remember how to touch, how to be touched?

But Noct hugs him back before Prompto has time to second-guess himself, and then Gladio gets in on the hug. It just feels so fucking good, and if Prompto needs a moment to wipe his face against the sleeve of Noct’s shirt, well - Noct is now taller than him, the asshole, and the gesture goes nicely unnoticed.

And then there's a small, polite cough from the truck, and Noct disentangles himself and steps back, and Prompto stares because - shit, just seeing Noct is bad enough. He believed Talcott but didn't really _believe_ believe him, not until Noct was an exhausted, unwashed, daemon-splattered reality between him and Gladio - and then there's Ignis, whom Prompto last saw as a reanimated fucking burned corpse.

He's been, ever since the call, dreading seeing Ignis like that again; alive but unrecognizable, burned to the bone, held together with indescribably wrong bits of the holy magic. dragging himself alongside Noct's quest to help him one last time, because, well, isn't that on brand for their lives? And Prompto isn't sure he can bear it.

But Noct helps Ignis down from the truck - and okay, this is weird, when did Ignis need help for something that easy, ever? Still, he looks, to Prompto's profound relief, more or less normal - in the same alien older way they all are, sharper, his hair unstyled and longer than Prompto’s ever seen it - his skin unblemished by burns -

Prompto stumbles, because it's like his brain is buffering what he's seeing, letting him catch on only one portion at a time, and now he's gotten to the fact that there's a black rag carefully tied over Ignis' eyes. He keeps his hand on Noct's shoulder even after he's left the truck.

"Iggy," Gladio rumbles, for once ahead of Prompto, and steps forward to engulf Ignis into a hug.

Ignis folds into him without hesitation, which is new, and weird. Ignis is - was - never standoffish but also never really physically demonstrative. But then, Prompto thinks, what does he know about the space Ignis and Noct shared for those ten years? Who can say what it does to you, what it lets you experience, what it leaves you hungry for?

Those are unpleasant things, and Prompto deals with them the same way he’s dealt with every unpleasant thing in his life to date, by plowing through them. He steps right over to Ignis and elbows Gladio so there's space for him to join the hug. Ignis is solid under his hands, if bonier than Prompto thinks he should be, sweaty and exhausted and real - and smelling faintly of ozone.

"Igster," Prompto says somewhere into Ignis' collarbone. "It's so good to have you back, man. Don't ever pull this shit again, okay?"

Ignis disengages him gently, inclines his head to look at him (or rather somewhere to the left of him). "I can't say I've enjoyed the experience overmuch myself, you know. I'll endeavor to do better."

Noct declares that they're going to Insomnia in the morning, to deal with Ardyn once and for all. Prompto is gratified he doesn't ask him and Gladio whether they're going along, treating it as a given, as well he should. There's an urgency to his motions, to his words, that Prompto has only seen in him once before, on their miserable dash to Zegnatus Keep. He isn't sure what it’s about. Ardyn sat in Insomnia for the last ten years, brooding malevolently, and will probably sit there for a week or so longer without much trouble, but he does not ask.

They set up camp slightly away from the clusters of people in Hammerhead, choosing not to take up one of the caravan wagons; their camping equipment, stored for years in the Armiger while Gladio and Prompto, by unspoken agreement, made do with rougher hunter fare, is pristine and untouched. Prompto almost offers Ignis the place at the camp stove, and bites his tongue at the last possible moment. Ignis does not make a move for it anyway; he's sticking to Noct's side, a hand constantly on Noct's elbow or shoulder, and the tentative, stumbling caution of his motions hurts Prompto's heart.

He's not alone in noting, apparently, and after dinner Gladio demonstrates that ten years have not chipped away his habit of dishing out tough love.

"So," he says. "Ignis. You prefer to stay here, or do you want somebody to get you to our digs in Lestallum to wait for us?"

Ignis raises his head in Gladio's direction - and Prompto articulates to himself, for the first time, what's been bothering him ever since Noct and Ignis came back: the slight delay in Ignis movements, like he's a lagging videogame character - but it's Noct who answers, firm and immediate. "Ignis is going with us."

"But he can't - "

"Noct," Ignis says, softly. "Let us not waste this night on arguments."

Noct starts like he does want and plans on arguing, but Ignis is already turning to Gladio and Prompto, raising his hands to the knot of his blindfold, and Prompto's breath catches, because he's absolutely sure he does. Not. Want. To see.

The knot gives, the dark fabric slides down Ignis' face, and there's nothing Prompto was afraid of underneath - no charred skin, no blood - and then Gladio swears, low and horrible, because Ignis opens his eyes, and the Crystal burns from within.

Prompto averts his eyes fast - the photographer in him is mesmerized by the sheer graphic wrongness of that image, and the rest of him would rather keep his sanity intact, thank you very much. He drops his gaze and Gladio gets up and paces up and down, angrily, and out of the corner of his eye, Prompto sees Noct's hands, gentle, pick the blindfold up and tie it around Ignis' head again.

"Hell," Gladio says, finally, the most non-obscene thing he’s said in the last ten minutes. "What does it mean then?"

"It means," Ignis says, "that I'll go with Noct until the end of the road. I do apologize for the inconvenience."

Noct flinches at that, very quiet, and Ignis turns to him, touches his hand. "You need to tell them now," he says, and Noct swallows and nods.

"There's something you two need to know," he says, slowly, and Prompto almost stops him, almost shouts at him to stop. He waited for so long, he and Gladio did, for ten dark and long years, waiting for that one night of normalcy, familiarity, reason - for their return - and now Ignis is something… different, and Noct is obviously not about to tell them anything good, and -

Gladio drops into the chair next to him, puts a heavy warm arm over Prompto's jittering knee. "Spit it out, Noct," he says, - and Noct, with Ignis silent and straight-backed and desecrated by his side, does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, check out the [gorgeous fanart](https://puffbirdstudio.tumblr.com/post/623225955659464705/the-latest-chapter-of-ao3-user-egelantiers) avianscribe made for this chapter! Ignis with his Crystal eyes.


	4. heavy metal, rock my heart

When Gladio was young, he spent a lot of time gorging himself on very age-inappropriate novels about the various historical (or arguably historical) Shields dying in heroic last stands, their Kings or Queens rewarding them with grand farewell speeches (and sometimes kisses). A lot of his youthful friction with Noct came down to how unsuited Noct, in all his resentful teenagerhood, was for this kind of fantasy.

Now it looks like he'll be getting his last stand on, only the farewell speeches and the last rites won't be for him. Noct's leading them toward his own death, with all the regal gravitas Gladio ever wished for and more, and Gladio hates every minute of it.

He hates, and appreciates just as much, that Noct expects Gladio to outlive him, that Noct has no doubt that Gladio will die for him gladly, that Noct respects his devotion, his readiness to play his role to the bitter end.

But after Prompto and Ignis go to sleep, Gladio and Noct spend a couple of hours going through the photos on Gladio's phone: Alma and the baby, Iris and her girlfriend, all the Hunters and Glaives and Lestallum factory women, and other people who are part of Gladio's community. Noct pores over the images and the stories with pure, uncomplicated delight - and tells Gladio he fully expects him to return to them and live on after the job is done.

When Noct's yawns become too mighty for him to contain, Gladio hugs him - shit, why didn't he do it more before? Why did he waste so much time?

"Gladio," Noct says, smiling at him, and he looks so tired and so clear at once, like the years washed all the cobwebs of doubt off him. "Look after Ignis when it's done, will you? I asked Prompto, too. He'll need you both."

They dart identically guilty glances at the tent, where Ignis is likely getting reacquainted with Prompto's sleep-cuddling tendencies.

"What the hell happened to him," Gladio asks, dreading the answer, "in there? Wasn't he with you?"

Noct shakes his head. "It was - it’s hard to explain. He was, in the beginning, but then - I slept, and I dreamed, and sometimes he was there, and sometimes he - wasn't. I don't - I asked, and he wouldn't tell. I don't know, Gladio. Promise me you won't leave him alone?"

"Of course," Gladio says. He can't imagine it will be easy; he has barely adjusted to this new Ignis, returned after so long, whole and broken at once; this new Ignis who's going to be left behind by Noct after living through fire to stay by his side. But family is family, and Gladio will do his best.

(He doesn't call Alma. The way the world is now, they say their real goodbyes every time one of them leaves home. If Gladio doesn't return from Insomnia, Talcott will bring her the news - but Gladio fully intends to see her and little Enid again.)

The morning comes too soon. There's fighting aplenty to be had when they enter the city, and Gladio's just glad that Noct came out of the Crystal with all his prowess intact, and some new oomph on top. Prompto takes over Ignis-minding without being asked, to Gladio's relief.

Ignis, uncomfortably, needs minding. It's not just his blindness - they did enough blindfolded drills back in their youth that Ignis should have more grace and more spatial awareness than this. He moves like he's forgotten how to occupy both his body and the physical space it inhabits. Like all the noise and murderous intent around him is just a distraction, and he doesn't even bother to reach for his weapons. And yet through all of it, he's unmistakably tracking Noct, turning towards him. It's unsettling. Gladio wants to ask what he’s seeing like this - and doesn't.

The closer they are to the Citadel proper, the more surreal Gladio feels. The desecration of the streets of his childhood and youth - yawning black holes in the buildings, rusty stains spilling across the cafe pavements, lone blinking lights, rubble and debris, a broken high-heeled shoe stuck in a grate. A cat skeleton, picked clean. Bleached bones, too small.

And daemons, daemons, daemons. Bubbling from the ground, hiding in the side streets, oozing up and coming endlessly, somewhere between a nightmare and a cheesy arcade game, and Gladio he just wants to do thorough enough work that it will be over. Over at last.

They fight a god; it's rather anticlimactic, as such things go. Ignis spends the battle sitting behind a barrier, listening with a half-distracted ear, and Gladio works very hard on not noticing how Shiva makes a tiny, acknowledging nod in his direction before disappearing.

Finally, the Citadel. Ardyn's idea of throne room decoration might have shocked Gladio if a good portion of the nightmares of his last ten years hadn’t been taken by purple light bleeding through charred skin. Still, it distracts him from the foul magic that slams into him and knocks him out. He wakes up to the almighty roar outside - the broken grand window of the throne room is flashing with colors, royal blue and pulsating red, and it sounds like the entire world is breaking itself apart. Noct must be fighting Ardyn, and Gladio surges to his feet to rush back into the fray -

Ignis grasps his hand, fingers shockingly cold. He's kneeling on the floor, and his head is tilted toward the Crystal.

"What the hell," Gladio says. Prompto is crouching low, shaking his head muzzily, trying to watch them both. Another crash shakes the city outside.

"We need to wait here," Ignis says, eerily calm. "This battle is for blood royal, not for us. Noct will be here soon."

"Isn't it why we're here, though," Prompto says. "To help him?"

"Not like that."

Gladio makes his way to the window, and he has to admit Ignis is right: compared to the storm outside, even their tussle with Ifrit seems rather mild. It's a maelstrom of clashing colors; the winds buffet him, stealing his breath. 

Prompto joins him, guiding Ignis. He looks, exhales in awe, and mutters something wistful about his camera.

Ignis, though, turns away from the window toward the Crystal, motionless and yet giving an impression of straining with his entire body.

"Ignis," Gladio says. "You're the one who spent ten years hanging out with Bahamut. What can we do?"

He clenches his fists, because it's been in the back of his mind ever since Noct made his confession back in Hammerhead, and he doesn't believe that Ignis is indifferent, not for a second. "I know this is what he has to do, to save the entire world, but damn. Our entire lives have been about leading him here to die?"

"The thing is," Ignis says, and falls silent. Then shakes his head, and begins again. "We weren't really needed, you see. Not in the grand scheme of things. For the gods, nothing mattered but bringing Noct and the Ring into the Crystal."

He turns to Prompto, finds his shoulder with hesitant fingers. "Can you take me to the throne, please? The light is too loud here, and I can't - "

Prompto, who was never able to escape Ignis' gravitational pull, complies, and Gladio takes his other flank, tearing his eyes from the spectacle outside with difficulty. And Ignis continues, sounding far-away, almost asleep. "And even Noct did not matter. They watched him his entire life, and still did not know him beyond his fate. Never saw him, never loved him. The gods talk to us in human terms, but they don't understand them; they're beings of light and power. Of physics, if you may."

The throne; in unspoken accord, Ignis takes his position on the left hand, falling into parade rest, and Prompto joins Gladio on the other side. It's weird how easily his body falls into the guarding stance, given that it's his first - and last - chance to guard Noct in his rightful royal seat.

The truth of Ignis' words sting. Gladio never was particularly religious, not even before he routinely engaged in fisticuffs with Eos’ pantheon, but he still believed in their justice.

"No mercy, then," he says, and chokes on his words. No justice and no mercy, not for his king; but the world can't take any more darkness without dying, and he can't - he can't - "And nothing we can do."

"We can be here," Ignis says. "We can be here so he won't be alone." He rubs at his eyes and adds, almost too quiet, "It's lonely, dying alone."

Prompto makes a choked-off, miserable sound by Gladio's side, and Gladio - and Gladio, who knew Ignis since he was a quiet, fussy boy with a hidden prankster streak, suddenly knows that Ignis is lying about something.

He doesn’t have time to ask, as the throne room doors bang open, and Noct - disheveled, dirty, bloodied, limping even harder, victorious - walks in.

"Noct," Ignis says, in a clear voice, the two of them forgotten. "Your Majesty. Welcome home."

"Hey," Noct says, quietly. His steps ring unevenly against the marble of the throne hall. "Are you guys supposed to be here? It won't be pretty."

"We know," Gladio growls. "Doesn't matter."

Prompto laughs, a brittle, staccato sound that almost startles Gladio into a flinch. "You and Ignis ditched us once already, so no more, okay? We're with you until the very end."

"As it should be," Ignis says; he's still at parade rest, his body half-forgotten, and his burning eyes track Noct with unsettling ease.

"It's not like we did it to hurt your feelings," Noct says, climbing the stairs. Up close, his eyes are clear; he's settling into peace, and there's no hesitation in his steps. He walks tall, as a king should, and Gladio is so full of love and pride in him, a decade late and a gil short, that he can barely breathe around it.

He bows to Noct when he comes up, low and proper, fist to his chest (Prompto, who never quite had the time to get etiquette down, hastily copies him) - and then sweeps Noct up into as tight a hug as he can manage. The chains and buckles of the royal raiments dig into his chest, and he tries to remember, to store the tactile memory forever.

"You are the best king this world ever had," he whispers, fierce, into Noct's ear. "Thank you."

"Knock them dead, dude," Prompto says, clutching Noct in turn. He's crying openly and freely, and Gladio loves him and envies him. "The gods don't deserve you."

And Ignis - and Ignis leans down to Noct, the churning light in his ravaged eyesockets throwing bizarre shadows on Noct's cheeks, and whispers something into his ear, too low for Gladio to hear. 

A chill rises in the throne room, shadows lengthening from corners, purple darkness coalescing into the vignette around the four of them. And there's no putting off the inevitable anymore.

Noct sits on the throne - his father's throne, his own throne, the last king of Insomnia, Noctis Lucis Caelum, the last of his name. He closes his eyes.

"Kings of Lucis, come to me!"

And so they come, in steel and light and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (the rising chapter count is a metaphor for how this year keeps spiraling out of control. or something! i swear to god i WILL finish this before 2021. no promises about october, though).


	5. we'll go down in history

It doesn't really hurt, in an insulting way: the swords of his ancestors jar his soul down to its foundations, but his body barely notices them. At least Ardyn gave his muscles and bones a workout before going ahead; at least Ifrit scorched him with fire and Shiva kissed him with frost.

He never thought he'd find the workings of his own body to be so bitterly priceless. He fell out of accord with it after Marilith shattered his spine, and never quite recovered the childhood ease, never quite took its smooth workings for granted again. And then he lost it for a decade and eternity more - touch, smell, taste, pleasure, pain - and got it back for just one day, and just one night.

His father stands over him in ashamed silence, and all Noct wants is for his blow to have the decency to hurt.

It doesn't.

The might of the kings sweeps him into the loneliness of Beyond, and he greets Ardyn there as he would greet a brother: he doesn't forgive but he understands, now, how it is to be loved by the gods.

Finish it, he tells himself. All the sacrifices that brought him here, unwilling, willing, ready, all for this moment. No place, in that shining space, for his little regrets, for the bitter yearning of his life to happen; too many others have paid in advance.

And when he does - when the will of the gods smashes through him, erasing him, shattering him - unraveling -

 _Noct_ , Ignis shouts, space and time and divinity be damned, _take my hand!_

He shouldn't, but he can't refuse - he reaches out, through the veil separating _here_ from _nowhere_ , and, against all odds, his questing hand finds warmth.

Ignis is by his side,Ignis' eyes burn with holy fire, and between their fingers, the light of the Crystal wells up, an unstoppable tide.

Ardyn is gone in a blink of an eye; he's set free, but Noct isn't. The light pours through him and Ignis, pulses between their palms, sweeping wider - wider - through Beyond, into the mortal world, chasing the last cobwebs of darkness away, healing the land, brightening the sky. Instead of disappearing, Noct gathers his body to him, feels its stubborn, awkward, hard-won _life_. He turns to Ignis, laughing in joy, grateful, incredulous -

( _Enough, little mortal_ , a voice of swords and wings says in his head, amused, and not to him, y _ou got your deal._ )

\- and the fire goes out.

* * *

The marble of the floor is cold under his back; his bad hip is twisted and aching unbearably, all the pain he wished for and more.

Gladio is leaning over him, and the familiar, exasperated, caring rage in his face is so ridiculously dear Noct can't help but laugh, and then gets distracted by the way laughter travels through his throat and lungs and lips.

He laughs until the meandering path of his returning awareness brings him back to Ignis, who's curled against his side, face hidden in Noct's shoulder, not moving despite Prompto's more and more frantic attempts to wake him up.

"Ignis!"

Noct surges up, his delight forgotten, and hauls Ignis up. His memory of what happened is already fading and fracturing, but Bahamut's _deal_ still rings in his head. Nothing good ever came from dealing with the gods.

"Ignis," he says again, quieter this time, pleading, as Ignis stirs in his arms. “What did you do?"

Ignis raises his head. His eyes, empty of their divine burden, are blackened ruins; and his smile is lopsided, pulled down sharply on the right side.

(Prompto's swearing somewhere to Noct's left, a long, inventive and sobbing string of blasphemies. Gladio is ominously silent, but he's warm and solid at Noct's back, shoring him up when Noct's knees weaken.)

"Argued. Had… t'make… space. Worked?"

The rising sunlight creeps into the throne room, lights Ignis' hair golden. His smile is sweet, content, utterly alien, achingly familiar; he's done what he wanted to, and got away with it, and left Noct with no exit at all.

"Yeah," Noct says, and curls over him, hides his face against Ignis' shoulder. "Yes, Specs, it did."

* * *

Despite the eternity separating Noct from his unhappy teenaged self, they are still united on one fundamental front: mornings are the worst, and waking up early is an injustice. He muses on this, groaning and trying to stretch his stiffened leg out without making it scream bloody murder, and considers being irresponsible just for once. But Ignis is already up, and they live on Ignis’ calendar, now.

Noct rolls out of bed, drags a hand through his hair, listens hard. Possibly a bad day: there's no coffee smell floating from the kitchen, and this is one part of kitchen duties that Specs usually never misses.

The rising sunlight paints a patchy pathway to the door, and the wooden boards are beginning to warm up under his feet. If he's honest with himself, the floor was one of the reasons he chose this cabin. It's been so new an experience, so different from anywhere they stayed before, from Insomnian marble and steel to rickety caravans. There's something pleasingly alive about the way the boards come to life in the morning; sometimes Noct's tempted to pet them.

(The bakery cat is about to give birth; Noct remembers that he's been promised one of the kittens in the litter, and smiles. Maybe there will be a black one.)

The bathroom is unoccupied; he does his business quickly, and starts a more systematic check. The kitchen is empty, although there are an empty pot and the opened coffee bag on the counter; the living room, with its carefully spotless floor, is empty too, and so is the freshly made up guest room. The trapdoor to the cellar is firmly closed, and the keys are still - Noct checks - in their proper hidden place, because just the idea of Ignis trying to get down those stars on one of the bad days gives Noct screaming anxiety.

Finally, the verandah, and - yes, right around the corner, on the swing seat Gladio helped Noct built last year, gazing sightlessly into the fog swirling over the lake in front of their house. Noct frowns and retreats to the living room to snag a throw off the sofa, and then comes back out.

"Hey," he says, quietly, in case it's a bad day after all. "Working on your tan?"

Specs turns to him, smiling his uneven smile, and Noct smiles in return, for all that it goes unseen. "Hands," Specs says, holding them up to demonstrate, "misbehaved. Not risking coffee."

His fingers are indeed shaking, and sometimes it means a bad day, but he's enunciating clearly and carefully, and he seems fully present, so Noct breathes out in relief. He'll take any kind of physical symptom over the twilight despair of the days when it's achingly obvious just how much of himself Ignis had gouged out to let the light of the gods in.

"I'm on it, no worries," he says, spreading the throw over Specs’ knees, careful not to dislodge the cane leaning against the swing. He sits next to Ignis, gently bumps their shoulders together. "How's the head?"

"Quiet."

"Plans for the day?"

"Is Prompto..? Today?"

"Yeah, tonight. New Braille books for you - they found an untouched library, he says - new fishing rod for me, love from Gladio and Alma, and all the fresh Insomnian gossip he can carry."

"Good," Ignis says, and falls silent. 

He leans back, and Noct reaches out, takes one of his hands, smoothes out the twitching fingers. Ignis’ face is tilted toward sunlight; there's no tension in his shoulders, in the long line of his throat. In the entirety of their life together, Noct rarely saw him so still, relaxed rather than mortally exhausted. And in the floaty uncertainty of Crystal dreams, Ignis' visits were short, bright, crammed full of real and imagined memories; he only remembers one, of them running and leaping over the Citadel rooftops, laughing in the setting sun.

He knows now that it was Ignis' way of saying farewell before he hollowed himself out, an indulgence and an apology at once, a sharp-edged gift from the gods. But the joke's on them: bad days or not, here they both are, and Noct won't trade it for anything. 

The sun climbs higher, makes the fog over the lake sparkle and shine before chasing it away. Noct pets Ignis' fingers, and lists the day's tasks in his head - fish, market, a bottle of local moonshine for Prompto's visit, check in with one of the passing hunters for more of Ignis' pain meds, make lunch, make dinner, the roof over the verandah needs patching - and thinks no further than a day ahead.

"Noct," Ignis says, quietly, without turning his head. "While I. Remember. Forgive me?"

"Yes," Noct says, and maybe doesn't lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaand cut. It was supposed to be a quick one-shot dashed off last October, but took on a life of its own - my deepest thanks to saisei and Ignis whump discord for their patience and help. Happy belated Halloween! Thank you for staying on this ride with me.


End file.
